


a reverie in six parts

by ciTohCysP



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: AHOT6 - Freeform, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fake AH Crew, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Marking, Not your grandma's soulmate AU, Polyamory, Rimming, Ryan-centric, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism, With Ray for old times sake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciTohCysP/pseuds/ciTohCysP
Summary: "He can feel his eyes drifting shut, and he comforts himself with the thought that there will be more nights like this. He knows that tomorrow night will be different, but it will be no less wonderful. He knows that Ray and Gavin and Michael and Jack and Geoff will all be there with him, and that’s all he really needs. With that final thought in his mind, Ryan closes his eyes, he breaths heavy, and he falls asleep."*Or, the one where Ryan lives a double life.James Haywood is the mild mannered lead in his college's theater production. He has an apartment (that doesn't feel like home), a loving girlfriend (who's never loved him), and a group of friends (who know him by a false name). To everyone who knows him, he is completely normal. But when he goes to sleep, Ryan wakes up in another world. In his dreams he is a fearsome killer in the city's most infamous gang, or a benevolent king sat on a throne of gold. As long as he is with his five loving boyfriends, nothing can stand in their way.





	1. Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginedecember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginedecember/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful Abbey. <3

Ryan sets the explosives and runs for cover. That may have been one too many sticky bombs, but hey, who’s counting? Gunfire resonates with foot fall pounding, and he ducks behind a parked car just as the sky splits with firelight on cue. The ground shakes like detonating C4, a blazing cop car to rest in pieces. Gavin shrieks in joy across the street and Michael cackles, his hair lit red and gold like molten copper by the rising flames.

Through the mic, five fingers tap out a steady eight-beat against the piano keys of the steering wheel, and Jack hums a distantly familiar song in the getaway car without a care in the world. Geoff is screaming loud enough that his own voice creates a dissonant echo with the comms in Ryan’s ear, his voice cracking like they sky’s cracking all around them.

There’s money wadded and stuffed in pockets; flying out the seams of matching jet black tactical backpack. It had been four against two for burlap sacks with a dollar signs printed on them, but they’d allowed Geoff to veto after a amenable compromise. The backpacks now have glaringly obvious dollar signs painted on them. Shits and giggles and white fabric paint becoming the world’s most idiotic target practice. The cops, dirty and straight, organize in a frenzied scatter plot to take potshots at the fleeing crew. Cops and robbers, it’s a fun game for the whole family and they’re all in on it. The prize is glory and the risks just make it better.

Ray joins in to Jack’s impromptu musical number from where he lies low on top of a building across the street, and Ryan finally recognizes the song as The Eye of the Tiger. It’s fitting, he thinks, and then the world lights up again from somewhere unknown. The ground shakes and bucks, throwing Gavin on his ass as the air catches fire around him. Michael roars something fierce brilliant, and Geoff swears louder than he has any right to.

“That was us right? Please tell me that was us!” Geoff’s screeching is met with a chorus of yes’s and one probably. “You fuckers know we weren’t actually supposed to burn the place to the ground, right!?”

Gavin laughs light and full as he scrapes himself up from the pavement. “But it’s more fun this way, innit?”

Jack and Ray reach the chorus, and Michael joins in with ferocious glee just as two more cops cars pull around the corner. Ryan drops his shotgun and it clatters to the ground, he’s deaf and it’s noiseless over the sound of the manic world in his ears. He reaches over his shoulder for the weapon slung behind his back. The chill of the metal rests heavy against his leather gloves, but the trigger fits nicely to his finger. A breath, a steady hand, a single motion, and the rocket launcher fires a clean shot straight into the oncoming reinforcements.

The first car goes up in a flare of yellow, white, blue. Staining the road around it black with a mark of heat. Tires screech and the second car behind it goes into a tailspin to avoid catching the same fate. The burning panda car reaches a critical point just as the driver’s side door opens to freedom, and the whole thing goes up in a cataclysm of screaming and seared meat. They’re all in on it, and the rewards are sweet.

“Holy fuck!” Ray breaks off to say. “Ryan, was that you?”

“Ooooh!” Gavin cheers and coos, a pause and a knife in a bank guard’s skull, then “that was bloody brilliant, Rye!”

Before Ryan gets a chance to respond Geoff cuts in with a shout of: “Alright you idiots! Ray, Ryan, cover our asses! Everyone else to the van!”

“Can do, boss man!” Ryan calls back through a grin with a thousand predatory teeth.

“Yeah, we’ll cover your asses alright,” Ray gets out between one shot and the next like a steady pulse beat. One, two, three, four, five, six rounds and reload, then do it again.

“Ew, Ray no!” Gavin says in disgust as Ray laughs.

Ryan’s mask came off in the chaos somewhere. He figures it must have been somewhere between Gavin pressing him up against the wall of the safe and Michael running hands through his hair. At least Ryan’s face paint is still smudged on his face like war paint. His jagged smirk and manic bright eyes anchored together by grey and black and streaks of red. He’s sure he looks some kind of demented, or every kind, and he loves it like he’s never loved anything. He loves it all like he’s never even dreamed. They are his world in the way that they created all of this, just for him. He loves them in the way that he shapes the world just for them, only for them. He loves this, he loves them; he lives for this, he lives for them. They’ve given him everything he’s ever dreamed of, and he loves them for it.

Geoff’s signal of “we’re on the road” is their cue to raise hell, and they do so gladly with smiles glinting like knives forged in the firelight inferno they’ve ignited with game, set, and match. There’s a breath’s pause while Ray switches out his sniper rifle for a grenade launcher, and Ryan takes cover in the alleyway below to watch as the show begins. Volatile explosives rain down from the sky in sharp flashes of white and gold. Deafness rings in his ears as a bright burst from above send cops and onlooking civilians alike scattering for cover wherever they can hope to find it.

The sky ignites, and the world rends. _Halle-fucking-lujah._ The city streets blessed by gods, malevolent in their benevolence.

Ryan retreats further back into the alley as grenades come apart with a muffled sound like chaos. With a blast his shadow hits the wall in triplicate, brilliant flares like stage lights giving him shaded wings. An angel of death reflected in brickwork. There sitting under his shadow is his motorcycle, pitch and jet like the moonless night sky. A grenade _plinks_ down to Earth behind him, and for a moment everything is cast into light. His shadow skitters, flickering wings flapping in and out of reality.

“Ray! Get down here!” Ryan shouts into the mic over screaming and explosives. They’ve had their fun, but now the sirens in the distance are telling him it’s time to pack up and get the fuck out of Dodge.

He swings one leg over the seat of the bike and revs the engine. The whole thing growls and trembles with impatience. Eager to tear up the pavement under its tires and split the wind in it’s wake.

“Are you guys not out of there yet?” Jack asks over the comms and Michael swears at them in all sorts of colors.

“Clear the fuck out!” Geoff demands of them from miles away. “Jesus, I didn’t think I’d have to spell everyhting out for you shit heads.”

“Heading out now,” Ryan assures them. “ETA to the safehouse is… ten minutes?”

“I don’t like that question mark, Ryan,” Geoff says from the other side of the comm.

Michael laughs. “You don’t like it because he just pulled that random number out of his ass.”

“No I did not!” Ryan responds with a righteous indignation. “It was a very thoroughly and carefully calculated number that I just pulled out of my ass.”

Ryan can’t see Geoff’s smile, but he can hear it from the huff of irritation that comes through over Gavin’s peals of laughter and Jack’s low rumbling chuckle.

Ray begins the precarious descent from the building’s ancient fire escape. The last section having been so badly rusted that he has to leap to the lid of a nearby dumpster to reach the ground. He lands with a cruch on some old fast food drink tray and a muffled cry of “parkour!”

When Ray sees Ryan already straddling the motorcycle he says, “aw, why do I have to ride in the bitch seat?”

“Because you’re his bitch, stupid!” Michael crows as Ray slips on the back of the bike.

Ray’s light enough that Ryan hardly feels his weight settle on the back of the motorcycle, but he burns hot like a furnace. He sears hot through Ryan’s jacket and sends sparks seeping into the skin underneath. A warning that grips tight and reminds Ryan to never, _ever,_ forget he’s there.

“No, you’ve got it all fucking backwards,” Ray tells him and Ryan revs the engine one last time, just to feel it growl. “Ryan is _my_ bitch.”

“Yeah, because I’m Ryan’s bitch,” Gavin adds, and Ryan and Ray peel out of the cover of the alleyway and fly out into the open streets.

Fumbling police officers and curious kittens of civilians surround the crime scene. At the first roar of the oncoming bike they all look up with slack jaws from the mess of green and red the crew has left behind. They tear past at whiplash speeds, and there’s one single fraction of a moment where Ryan can see his visage reflected in all their wide eyes. The wind buffets against his face and he thinks _yes._ This is exactly how it should be, all of them together; Ray against his back and the other’s in his ear, and the whole wide world at their fingertips.

“Excuse me, what?” Ryan asks with an easy laugh as bullets dart all around them. It seems the police aren’t going to let them off without a fight. “I don’t recall ever deciding on you as my bitch.”

Ryan veers hard left to avoid the encroaching sirens, and the police howl at them to pull over. They ride up on the sidewalk to quick dodge around the corner, nearly clipping a street sign and the corner of the building as they do so. He has to check over his shoulder just to reassure himself that Ray’s weightless form is still clinging to the back of the bike. Honestly, the sniper rifle across the kid’s back weighs twice as much as he does, but the smirk on this face is twice as deadly.

“Wot? Rye! I thought we had somethin’ special!” Gavin says, but his mock hurt is shot through with tittering giggles.

“No, Michael is a much better bitch,” Ryan decides when the moment has passed, but the feeling remains. “Less bones, more meat, if you know what I mean.”

“So what, we all can only have one bitch now?” Michael asks in all seriousness over Gavin’s cries of indignation.

A police barricade looms on the road ahead.

“How else are you supposed to have one big circle jerk?” Gavin points out.

Ryan slams on the gas, speeding up to feel the rip of wind clawing at his jacket.

“Oh Jesus,” Jack says with a chuckle. “Well then I call Geoff, Geoff is my bitch now.”

His head is filled to bursting with the speed of it all. Fire raging like money, bullets, and blood in his chest.

“Oh hell no!” Geoff yells, “I am no-one’s bitch! You’re all _my_ bitches!”

That rush of pure adrenaline, and death leaning over all their shoulders like a cat just waiting.

“That’s not a circle jerk works, Geoff!” Michael screams into the mic. “You can’t have a circle with just one guy and five bitches! That’s not how it fucking works, _you fucking idiot!_ ”

Ryan kind of wishes he could tell death that it’ll be waiting for a damn long time if he has anything to do with it.

In the mic Gavin is screeching with laughter while Geoff loudly defends himself against Michael’s verbal onslaught. Jack begins to hum a new song, and Michael gets louder and louder.

Because if death wants to take any one of his boys from him…

Well.

They are going to have some _words_ about that.

Before long Michael, Geoff, and Gavin have joined in on the sing-along. “Is that… Adele?” Ryan asks with a laugh as Ray joins in to sing Rolling in the Deep.

Well, Ryan’s never been one to resist a good sing-along. “There's a fire starting in my heart!”

“Wooh! Go Ryan!” Ray cheers from where he’s curled up against his neck.

“Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out the dark.”

The barricade is near enough that Ryan can read names off copper badges. A grin splits his face, and he curls his fingers tight around the handle. Ray’s fingers dig into his ribs, and Ryan charges onward with eyes glinting like damnation.

“Finally I can see you crystal clear.”

It’s a game, and they’re all in on it. Something like cops and robbers. The rewards are great, and the risks are deadly. The cards are dealt and the deck is stacked. They’ll keep playing a round and a round forever, but every once in awhile, someone knows when to quit.

“Go 'head and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.”

Ryan and Ray breach the roadblock riding upon the pale horse of death, and they don’t know when to quit.

“See how I leave with every piece of you.”

The police officers dive left and right, dodging out of their way in a tumultuous parting of the black and copper sea. They fold, then part. Their lives are the one thing they won’t lay on the table when it comes down to it, but they played anyways. Just like the game you’ve known you’ll lose, but you played anyways because, oh, it had been such a fun game. It’s playing chicken with a bullet train, and the deck has always been stacked, and the risks have never stopped anyone before. Ryan weaves between cop cars and metal fencing before emerging on the other side.

“Don't underestimate the things that I will do.”

“We’ve arrived at the safehouse!” Gavin announces over the comms.

“Aw, c’mon!” Ryan says. “Did you have to interrupt Adele for that?”

“Come on man, Jesus,” Michael joins in heckling Gavin.

“What’s your ETA now do ya think?” Jack asks, interrupting Gavin’s whining.

“Uh, like three minutes?” Ray answers while Ryan slices through a red light. “We lost the cops and we’re not that far out…”

“Alright, see you boys in three,” Geoff confirms.

“You assholes better not split up the cash without us,” Ryan says in his serious voice.

“No, we’re just gonna take it and run, no need to bother splitting it up at all,” Michael responds and Jack agrees.

“Oh hell no,” Ray says. “That’s my cash, I worked hard for that.”

“All you did was sit on a roof and shoot at people!” Gavin accuses with a laugh. “You weren’t in the building doing anything real.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about!” Michael roars between barking laughter. “Of course his sniping was real, those cops didn’t just fall over because he shot _imaginary_ bullets at them you fucking idiot! Do you even hear the things that come out of your fucking mouth?”

“No, but Micoo-”

“No! No buts!”

“No buts?” Ray says. “What else am I here for if not my amazing ass, since _apparently_ I’ve been downgraded to imaginary sniper.”

“Oh Ray,” Jack says, joining in to the clusterfuck of a conversation. “We were only ever using you for your dazzling personality.”

“But the cops didn’t know where Ray was.” Gavin starts up again. “We were the ones inside the building with the guards and stuff.”

“Oh my god Gavin!” Michael erupts. “What is your obsession with being in the building? Will you shut up about it for one goddamn minute?”

“Does this mean I don’t get any of the cut since I just sat in the car?” Jack asks in jest.

Their words start coming faster and faster as the adrenaline fades from their bodies. Ryan can feel his grip on the handle’s of the bike beginning to tremble, and Ray’s fingers around his waist shiver with the sudden drop of manic energy. Their bodies desperately struggle for some last surge of adrenaline or _anything_ to keep the high going and avoid the inevitable crash.

The safehouse comes into sight, and Ray tells the others, “Hey, we're here.”

“Fucking finally,” Geoff says. “Only took you guys forever, goddamn.”

“Do you _want_ us to lead the cops straight to our base? Because if you do just say the word and I’ll do it,” Ryan responds in a perfectly sane tone of voice. “We can throw them a surprise party, one with lots of bullets.”

Geoff sighs and Gavin laughs. “Just get the fuck inside so we can do this already.”

The crew’s comms click off one by one, and as soon as they’ve ducked down into the parking garage below the safe house Ryan plucks his from around his ear. Ray hops off the bike while Ryan steadies them, releasing the kickstand with his foot.

The moment Ryan’s slid off the seat he is immediately assaulted by Ray pressing a hot kiss to his lips. Ray’s mouth is warm and searing against his own, full of sharp teeth that bite at his lips and make his head buzz pleasantly. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss, not now, never after a heist. Tender kisses are saved for slow morning sex or date nights out on the pier, right now what they both want is something rough that tastes of both victory and risk. Ray pushes him slowly back up against the bike, his fingernails dragging lightly against Ryan’s back and making him shiver.

Ah, there it is. Adrenaline, dopamine, endorphins, all those wonderful neurotransmitters that his body was so needy for, the high he was so desperate to hold on to.

Ray crowds him up against the bike, and with nowhere else to go Ryan pushes himself up onto the seat. Ray ties to break off the kiss to breathe, but Ryan wraps his legs around Ray’s waist and pulls them flush together. He feels Ray’s breath hitch in his chest, and Ryan watches the tiny smirk light up the corners of his lips. Ryan bites at his taunting smirk, all the while trying to draw them impossibly closer. Ray tastes like urgency, and Ryan _wants_. He’ll accept whatever Ray’ll give him, whatever he can take. Ryan deepens the kiss, and Ray makes a little noise from the back of his throat. Ryan needs to make him do that again. Ray grinds his hips down against Ryan’s and he can’t help the small gasp that escapes from between his teeth in time with Ray’s low moan of pleasure.

“You couldn’t keep it in your pants for five goddamn minutes?” Geoff asks over the comm.

Ryan ignores the little voice coming in through his ear, but Ray inexplicably breaks off the kiss and Ryan whines. It takes him a moment longer than it should, but it clicks somewhere in his addled mind that he turned his comm off. That in turn raises the question of how Geoff could be talking to them from all the way up in the penthouse.

“Hey Geoffers,” Ray says over Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan turns his head and blinks to see, yep, that’s Geoff standing at the base of the parking garage elevator.

“Like fucking rabbits, Jesus Christ,” Geoff moans in exasperation.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” Ryan tells him with a clever little smirk. “Now go away, it was just getting good.”

“Hey, Earth to Dumbass,” Geoff says while Ray starts kissing up Ryan’s neck in a valiant effort to mark his pale skin. “We still have to count the cash before we all start with the victory fucking. Also, Ray is my bitch, you can have Jack or Michael of something.”

“You guys decided on bitches without us? No way!” Ray exclaims in outrage, a thin trail of saliva still connecting his mouth to Ryan’s neck.

“Just get the fuck upstairs,” Geoff says, rubbing the heel of his palm against his face.

“So that we can fuck?” Ray asks hopefully.

“No,” Geoff yells as he turns back towards the elevator. “So that we can count out our haul, and then fuck.”

If there was ever a way to slam an elevator, Geoff would have done it. Instead he just stood there, glaring at the two of them as the doors slowly closed between them. There’s a long moment in which Ray and Ryan silently stare at the elevator after the doors have closed, both internally debating how mad Geoff would be if they finished each other off before they came upstairs.

“He’s just mad because he didn’t get any hot sloppy make outs,” Ray says sagely. He seems to have made a decision, and Ryan follows with worship in his eyes. “Now come on, bitch.”

“Why am I the bitch?” Ryan asks as Ray peels himself away from Ryan, giving him room to stand.

“Are you kidding? You’re clearly the bitch.”

Ryan looks down at himself: his jacket rumpled, a neat bruise already purpling on his collarbone, and pinned against the motorcycle. “Okay, so maybe I am the bitch.”

“The best bitch,” Ray says with a quick kiss and a smile like light.

*

Ryan’s the last one awake. The stillness and quiet that fills the room to overflowing settles his heart and makes his mind turn and twist leisurely like silk curtains in the breeze.

He thinks that there’s something to being surrounded by people you love. It’s weighted with incomprehensible meaning, and dogged with the persistent feeling of never enough. It’s something warm and nameless that sits in his chest, like a content that’s cat curled up around his heart and gone to sleep. Although he doesn’t think he could put a name to it even if he tried. All the best things are this way; too ancient to be named, and too all-encompassing to be described. Lying here, surrounded by the men of his dreams, he’s enveloped in the warmth of only people who’ve ever mattered in the world.

Everything is silent, except for the soft even breaths of the other’s curled up around him. Jack to his right snores deep and full, and Michael on his left, in contrast with his waking personality, is so quiet that he hardly makes a sound. Gavin’s legs have somehow gotten tangled up around his own and everyone else's under the sheets.

The whole of the world around them is silent and still. The dawning sky yawning with deep blues, not yet ripe enough to bleed pink. The Earth sits heavy with sleep on it’s axis, and nothing stirs outside the window. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he wants this single moment to stretch out into infinity so he never has to leave the warmth and comfort of this bed.

He can feel his eyes drifting shut, and he comforts himself with the thought that there will be more nights like this. There will be the nights that they spend curled up on the pair of king size mattresses that they pushed together like one huge mutant bed, just as there will be nights when they stay up late into the morning with alcohol in hand and bets on the table, a string of increasingly colorful curses as they all crowd in front of the television screen, or a night spent never leaving the bedroom and never going to sleep.

He knows that tomorrow night will be different, but it will be no less wonderful. He knows that Ray and Gavin and Michael and Jack and Geoff will all be there with him, and that’s all he really needs. With that final thought in his mind, Ryan closes his eyes, he breaths heavy, and he falls asleep.

*

Ryan opens his eyes to the sound of his alarm clock. Early morning light streams through the window and invades his eyes. He sits up slowly, his legs sliding off the side of his queen size mattress, and somehow he manages to turn off the blaring alarm through hazy eyes.

He feels half dead, and he’s sure he looks it too. He can’t remember a single time in his life when he’d felt like he gotten a full night’s sleep. He blinks once, then again, trying to wake himself up. The bed shifts under him and he turns to see a half dressed woman in bed next to him.

She turns her pretty gaze to him with a smile, looking unfairly put together for how ungodly early in the morning it is. “Good morning, James.”

“G’mornin’,” Ryan says and returns her smile the best he can.

“Are you ready for your dress rehearsal?” She asks through a yawn.

Ryan laughs lightly, pressing the heels of his hand against his eyes to keep himself awake. “No, but it’s time to get up and face the real world.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great.”

“Yeah,” Ryan uses one hand to rub his unmarked neck and sighs. “I hope so.”

*

"As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,  
    Leads by the hand her little child to bed,  
    Half willing, half reluctant to be led,  
    And leave his broken playthings on the floor,  
Still gazing at them through the open door,  
    Nor wholly reassured and comforted  
    By promises of others in their stead,  
    Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;"

\-- [Nature by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/nature)

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Ryan sings in this chapter is [Rolling in the Deep by Adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYEDA3JcQqw) if you want to listen along, and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qB4PQY9g_io) is the video of the AH guys actually singing Rolling in the Deep.


	2. Resolution

The earliest memory Ryan can recall with any clarity is one of blue skies hung over red deserts. The wind whistled and spun golden around the three of them, urging them onwards. A preteen Geoff forged lazily ahead, a treasure map that he hardly knew how to read scrawled across the back of his hand. Jack, only a year ahead and much older than himself, took Ryan gently by the hand and led him over rolling dunes of endless sand. The moon burned bright, drowning out all the stars in the sky. He’d never been happier.

At first it was Geoff, Jack, and Ryan, with Geoff leading their adventures as far as their imaginations would carry them. For years it was just the three of them, then Michael, Gavin, and Ray appeared. Each year, one after the other, like early birthday presents gifted by fate. With each new edition to their family, their adventures grew ever more brazen and byzantine. They spiraled ever upwards, all of them building off one another in new and increasingly discursive ways until they could no longer see the ground. Ever escalating in pursuit of Empyrean.

Geoff is always, _always_ in charge. He is the oldest after all, and every kid knows that the oldest get the first say. He wears the crown of a somnolent sovereign, although he’s never been so much their leader as the ringleader. With a careless smile he heads a circus of wild, untamed lions and trapeze artists without a net to fall on. He is the languid luminary leading the way to wherever they might follow, and they do follow. They are free to wreak havoc in his wake, inviolable under the asylum he offers and assures. He’s untouchable, sat up high upon a throne of gold and steel, and all under his rule is made sacrosanct. He doesn’t give a shit because he doesn't need to. Nothing can touch him. Nothing would dare.

If Geoff is their half-assed harbinger, then Jack is the pillar on which they sharpen their blades; steadfast and unmovable in his stubborn kindness. When Ryan was first old enough to dream, Jack had taken him in and shown him the way. Jack found them all, mournful children overwhelmed by this world without definition. Jack is the one who keeps them together in a world with no limits. Whenever they drift apart, he is their grounding point. A promise of a solid presence and open arms whenever they are ready to return.

Of the lads, Michael was first. Of course, he’d have it no other way. He came to them just as they had begun to think that the three of them were alone in this world, as if he had appeared solely with the intention of proving them wrong. He is the summer child, brimming with heat and power that settles in his fingertips and surges in his blood. He shakes the ground with his purpose and rolls the sky with his thunder. Loud, louder, and loudest, all at once. He is the one who drives them onwards, drawing them all up into his quest for self-satisfaction, goading them on where they would otherwise falter.

Gavin is hot headed and hard headed, and he throws himself head first into whatever catches his eye. He is the spring child, destructive in his creativity. He sees everything for what it is, what is could be, and he tears it apart. He breaks everything down — stripping it bare piece by piece, then burning away all that is unnecessary — until all that’s left is the very fundamental essence of the thing itself. He takes it apart, then puts it back together better than how he found it. He takes them all apart, again and again, and each time he makes them better.

Ray was the last of them, and he came forth bearing autumn's finality. He had ensconced the season’s dying desperation deep within himself, and from it he is driven forth by an urgency that the living can hardly comprehend. It burns in him, the crying need for a second chance, for more time, for another way. He collects the pleas of the damned off their dying breaths like a string of beads, and he fulfills them all. He’s never once failed. After all, what’s the point in doing anything if you don’t do it _right?_ Ray is their balance, what they do wrong he makes right. He is the absolution and atonement to the crimes that they commit, seeking out imperfections and redeeming them like a compulsion.

The five of them, the great gods of this grand dream.

It’s always been like this, for as long as Ryan can remember. Every night he goes to sleep and dreams of the five people who matter most.

He’s never spent a night alone.

*

He’s wandering blind, but only for a moment. Ryan pulls the half-clean shirt over his head and squints his eyes against the sudden return of brightness. His feet sink into the soaked bathroom rug, and crystalline drops drip from the ends of his hair and shatter against linoleum tiles. He shivers, goosebumps rising on his arms as the cold air seeps away the lingering bone-deep warmth of his morning shower. The world around him is quiet save for the soft sounds of his own breathing which he times out to the steady tempo of _drip, drip, drip_.

Through the quiet haze he can only see the world in pieces. In one frame the sharp shape of the mirror is all dulled edges, fogged over by steam from the now absent shower’s heat. He can’t see who it is reflected in the mirror. The man decorated in scars from blades, burns, and bullet wounds, each one a story written across lean muscle earned in running and fighting and _winning_ , or the man who waits, who’s never fought for day in his life, the man who toils aimlessly until the next time he can sleep. The mirror is heavy and silent and tells him nothing at all.

This world of limbo is warm and slow; it’s melancholic. Misty residue from the shower curling into each breath. He doesn’t know where he is, _who_ he is, but hidden away in this small room he doesn’t particularly care.

Here, without knowing what’s on the other side of the door, it could be either. He could be walking in the waking world where he doesn’t so much live as plainly exist, or otherwise he could open the door and be swept away by the world of dreams become truth. Spending his nights where he truly lives as something to be feared and admired.

In the silence there is a chance of one over the other, and that half-chance is better than the possibility of opening the door and knowing that there’s a long day ahead of him before he can return to all that brightness and fire. Schrödinger's cat curls around his legs and holds him here to dwell in possibility.

He can’t stay here forever, and the moment of truth rushes upon him quicker than he would like. He dries his hair and stands awkwardly for a moment as he realizes he has nothing left to dawdle on. The door is impossibly intimidating, like no dirty cop or looming hissing, dead eyed monster has ever had the right to be. He puts a hand on the door knob and the metal of it stings cold against his fingers. He’s still half asleep despite his early morning shower and the cold only registers as something vague and distant.

He opens the door slowly, as quietly as the old hinges will allow. There’s a quiet shuffling and closing of cupboards from the kitchen. Ryan wonders which kitchen it is, and who is in it. The consequence of mistaking one world for the other forces wakefulness into his foggy mind. He cannot falter, a single mistake could ruin this tentative normal he’s built up around himself. The uncertainty makes his fingers twitch, aching for the comfort of a gun or a blade that he doesn't yet know if he's allowed to have. He shuffles forward and emerges into the livingroom of this apartment. This is it.

Is he Ryan or is he James?

He catches sight of a woman in the kitchen, resting comfortably in front of an off-brand coffee maker. Ryan’s fingers still almost immediately as a wave of tenacious reality washes over him and seeps into him alongside the fire and the chill. For a moment he’s awash, a mix of conflicting urges surging inside him.

 ~~He is Ryan~~.

He is James.

Here and now, this is reality. He needs to remember that. He needs to separate this world from every other. He makes certain that everything which doesn’t fit here is pressed deep down and locked up, held in a tense, choking grip. Sometimes it scares him, when the person that he is but isn’t slips out into the real world. He doesn't even realise he's done it until someone is looking at him oddly or laughing like the insult he flung with savage intensity was some kind of a fucking joke.

It’s hard, but it’s easier here with her. The woman, Micah, steadily either accepts or ignores all the little bits of madness that escape his grip. She pretends not to see his tears when he’s torn awake in the middle of a dream, and she gives him space on his bad days, all the while never asking why.

For all her charity, there are things that even she can not accept. She would leave if she knew. If she knew what he did, what he does. The world he returns to each night, and the things he does while he lies next to her in bed. She would hate him, she would leave and she would never come back. Any sane person would.Maybe he’s selfish for wanting her to stay, but he won’t tell her. He won’t give her a reason to leave because it’s so much easier with her here. However much he knows that she would leave. She should leave. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged down to hell with him. He’s a monster, and there’s no atonement for that.

She would leave if she knew the things that go through his head on his bad days, when he closes all the curtains because he can't bear to see the sun, fucking mocking him, how _dare it_. He wants to tear it out of the sky and rip it to shreds and he wants to _scream_ , but instead he wears tracks in the linoleum pacing the room. He can’t _stop_ or he’ll hit the ground and he won’t get back up.

He can feel the sticky blood between his fingers, _"out, damned spot, out, I say,"_ and it’s drying under his nails and it feels more real than the dreams of all the people he’s killed. " _Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him._ "

But nothing will make it _just go away_ , and he wants to cry and he thinks he’s crying and he thinks of the things he’s done and his head spins and everything spins and he thinks too much and it’s all _too much_. But it doesn’t stop it _never_ stops and he’s still burning up inside and he can _feel_ himself breaking down the flames eating away at his bones for sustenance and he can feel it charring his meat and searing its burn scars into his blackened heart.

He’s breaking down and he can’t escape it because it’s all _inside him_ , demanding something that he _just can’t give_.

He knows it’s only a matter of time but he doesn’t know how much time he has _left_ and he could die tomorrow and just burst into flames as they eat through his skin and maybe that will be what redemption feels like, but right now he just feels sick.

He tries to distract himself, to focus on something else while the whirlwind inside him subsides. He snaps his sight into focus, eyes searching for something, anything to ground him. Micah’s wearing socks under her sweatpants. There’s that, focus on that. They’re the double layered ones he gave her for christmas. He picked them out because they were the perfect shade of green. He told her they matched her eyes, and she accepted the excuse without a word.

No, stop. This isn’t working. Find something else. The wisps of hair that fall free from her careful braid. They curl off in spiraling flares that loop back to rejoin the twist of the masses. Her too large sweater sits lopsided across her shoulders, one side of it artfully escaping down her arm. She’s tired too — he can see it in the slope of the spine and her hand anchored to the counter — but she would never admit it.

The make up that she’d used yesterday to coat her face like war paint is all gone now, wiped away for a clean slate. Kevlar in lipstick, a knife brandished like eyeshadow. She never leaves the house without it. It’s nice, in a way, that she trusts him enough to allow him to see her like this, before she’s all covered up again.

He knows what that’s like, he gets it more than she will ever know. Foundation and face paint: a decoration, a tool, or a weapon, all used to blend in with the worlds around them. He knows her too well because he is her, in a way. The two sides of a coin share a lot in common.

Looking at her now with the smell of coffee grounds in the air, he’s reminded of how they met. Years ago when she’d only been known to him as a friend of a friend looking for an off-campus roommate. They’d met up in cheap coffee shop just as the day had gotten too hot to bear. She’d seen that sharp bright brilliance in his eyes, and she recognized him immediately as someone encased by fire.

She’d seen the coals and embers in the back of his throat when he’d opened his mouth to speak, just as he had seen the layers of soot and ash resting along her skin. She’s charred black from her fingertips to her wrists; her bones that once burned brilliantly now reduced to some charcoal structure. He can only imagine what an odd pair they make, burned out and burning bright, a contrast in grey and gold.

She didn’t want to talk about it, and neither did he. So they sat together without saying a word, mourning in silent sympathy over a rickety coffee table with one short leg.

He wonders how long it will be before he runs out of fuel to feed the all consuming pyre. He knows he can’t tame the great dream, it burns so bright she can see it through the seams in his skin. But how much longer can he keep it up? At this pace, this heat and this constant burning need, how long until he crumbles to the ground? When there’s nothing of himself left to give, his oxygen and his meat and his bones all consumed, when he’s willingly given it all to feed the flames, what will become of him then?

How much longer can he keep this up before he ends up like her?

He tries not to think about it too much.

Instead he thinks back to three years ago. There and then, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a cheap coffee shop somewhere past ninety degrees, they’d come upon an agreement. A one bedroom apartment half a mile from campus and a semblance of normalcy.

He’s learned a lot of his faux-lover since that time. Micah functions in a way that he’s curious to see, but cautious to approach. She’s the chaos killer to his chaotic killer. At some point in her life she had nothing but scrap and catastrophe, but she was built unwavering. After fourteen years of hard work she’s a hair's breadth away from her doctoral degree. She is creating her world for her, and he admires her for it, in a way. She doesn't need someone else to give her the world; she's already taken it and shaped it for herself.

He makes no mistake, this world is hers. He’s just living in it by her own good graces. His own world lies elsewhere, behind closed eyelids and inside scorching dreams.

“Morning James,” she says, and Ryan blinks himself back into awareness. She’s leaning against the counter and watching him with what he figures would be fondness, if she could feel fond at all. “Coffee or tea?”

It’s become a game between them, coffee or tea. Neither of them drink tea, but Ryan keeps buying it anyways. Bigelow’s lemon ginger, Tetley’s darjeeling, only the cinnamon from Dilmah smells quite right, Lipton chamomile, Tazo chai; an entire upper shelf of their kitchen cabinets has become utterly dedicated to colorful boxes of store bought tea. She doesn’t ask, it’s the toll she pays to keep him, but her curiosity lingers along the boxes of tea up on high shelves where they sit untouched. All of them gathering dust along with all the other little things Ryan’s collected to make this world feel more like home.

He is constantly reaching for whatever flickers he can find of another world, anything that reminds him of home. It’s obvious in the Tea, capital T, and in the painting hung on their living room wall. It’s not exactly Fighters, but the resemblance he saw through the antiques shop window was worth the hefty price tag. Micah takes it all in stride. Hammering nails into the wall with a smile, giggling quietly to herself. All the while he stands, embarrassed and pleased with himself in equal turns. Holding his impulse purchased prize as it rests against the ground, because the ornate frame makes it too heavy to hold much longer on his own.

He needs her, because otherwise people start asking questions. “Why isn’t he dating anyone? Why isn’t he married? Why isn’t he normal?”

More than that though, more than the Tea or the Painting or any of the little things, is the thrill. The rush of laughing, screaming, fighting, exploding, either metaphorically or literally. He craves it. He _needs_ it. He doesn’t know how he could live without it.

Micah needs something simple and _normal_ , something she can show off to her friends, but doesn’t constantly require all of her energy and effort and attention. So Ryan asks for only what he needs, and Micah gives him what she can bear to of that wild glory.

He’ll attend her social gatherings, let her hang off his arm and smile for all her friends. Engage in endless conversations that drag on, talking about how he likes being in theatre, or what it’s like dating Micah, or the newest episode of that one TV show, or how they met, or what he wants to do for a living, and on and on. When he can’t take it anymore she leads him out, hanging off his arm until they’re out of sight. In the car she holds his hand and whispers _thank you_ and he tells her _it’s alright_.

In private, away from friends and enemies, she’ll argue with him, but only when he needs it. She’ll even throw a fist when he’s really asking for it. But she can’t bring herself to go so far as to brandish a blade, even just as a threat, or point a gun, even if she had one. And he never asks that of her, only asks for what he needs. She always feels guilty, afterwards when the all consuming blaze in him has quieted and he can see and hear and think again. While bruises bloom blue and purple on his arms, he accepts every _I’m sorry_ she whispers against his chest and assures her _it’s okay_.

It’s a compromise, of sorts.

The Micah of now stands against the counter, still waiting on an answer. He wonders how long he’s been standing there. Micah doesn’t give him any hints, sitting patiently with a small smile on her lips. He shuffles into the kitchen and tiredly musters the energy to play this subtle game. “Coffee, _please._ I’m going to fall asleep standing up if I don’t get some caffeine soon.”

She rewards him with the press of a warm mug into his hands. There’s no tender brushing of fingers or lingering good morning kiss. She isn’t able to give it, and Ryan wouldn’t be able to receive it. As it is, there’s a long silent moment that stretches out between them as she leans back on the counter with a tilt of her head and a small smile; she’s still watching him, waiting.

She brings up the Tea or the Painting, asking without asking, and then she expects him to retaliate. She’s never touched the rules, just danced around them. She’s curious about him, just as he wonders about her, but they both know not to go too far. Usually her casual paralipsis would be countered with an apophasis of his own. Bringing them to a stalemate by mentioning the Mail or the Weekend. A low, humming reminder to them both that by prodding at other’s secrets you open yourself up to questioning in turn.

“Did you check the mail? I’m expecting a letter from that playhouse I auditioned at.” He decides to bring up the Mail, and with it the Letters. The ones that have her compulsively checking the mailbox like clockwork. She keeps them all under her pillow and never lets him see them. She doesn’t talk about the tear tracks that stain her cheeks with each new letter, and he doesn’t ask. It’s a lackluster retaliation, but it’s enough.

“I checked it when I came in last night, didn’t see anything for you,” she says slowly.

Her eyes flick over him; his weak grip on the coffee mug, the tight line of his shoulders, his wavering stance, the bags under his eyes. He’s not up for it today, and she must see that in him because she drops from the counter with a small, unnoticeable nod. She doesn’t pressure him for more, doesn’t press her advantage. She lets it go and moves on.

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” she says as she slips away from the counter.

“Sure,” he agrees, quietly expressing his thanks. She brushes past him towards the bathroom, her footsteps leaving a thin trail of ash that dances in her wake wherever she treads. “I’ll heat up a lasagna.”

“I was thinking something fancy. Wine and waiters and a meal under the stars,” she forges a small smile and disappears into the bathroom. “It’s our anniversary after all!”

He brings the coffee up to his lips and sips the drink, made just how she knows he likes it. She may not be capable of humanity’s more romantic notions, but she is good at feigning them. “Alright, meet you there after class.”

”At eight,” she confirms and the door falls shut. Then, muffled through the thin walls of a cheap apartment, “you better going if you don’t want to be late!”

There is no real reason for wine or waiters or a ‘romantic dinner under the stars’. Neither of them get much from it, other than the distant feeling of reassurance found in being alone together. It’s simply something Micah needs, a check mark to put on her list of Things That Are Normal. One of the things Ryan has learned about her from tentative poking and prodding is her thought that maybe, just maybe, if she acts normal enough, then she’ll feel normal again. And the way to do that comes in the form of a list. A college education: check. A boyfriend: check. Anniversary dinner: check. He doesn’t mind that she uses him, it’s only fair since he’s using her too. They both have their ways of surviving from day to day. He just plays the role of Boyfriend that she requires of him, and in turn she does what she can for him.

She’s much better at playing normal than he is. He finds himself taking notes from her: the way she talks, walks, holds herself, and holds everyone else at arm's length. He likes trying to guess what it was that ruined her. The rule of the game is no asking questions, because if he asks, then that gives her the right to ask, and she knows he’s just as curious as he is. She can see the pyre of love in him burning bright as ever, and yet he stays with her. She is built on crumbling ash and dust, yet she keeps him. A pair of enigmas feigning normalcy.

He closes his eyes and takes another sip of cooling coffee, standing still in the silent kitchen. He doesn’t want to move just yet. Outside these thin walls he is faced with an unyielding reality. Now, for just a moment, he rests. Amidst the lull of the shower running in the next room he considers her, the best friend he’s ever had. He thinks of him and her. He thinks of too much love, and of none at all. Then he comes to the thought, as he always does when love is involved, of what it would be like if _they_ were here.

If they were real.

Left alone, the cloud of haze that settles over the early world brings together memory and misremembering. Fiction overlain on fact to yield glorious paramnesia. In this time, under the quiet light of dawn, those who are lost and those who have lost may live in a perfect world, if only for a short time before the sun rises and burns it all away. This is the place where unbound thoughts let themselves loose, run wild in ignorance of the relentless that life commands.

Another world calls to him. An inferno that burns at the edges of his mind, flaring behind his eyes and rooted deep inside him. It demands oxygen, more fuel to fan the flames. So, with little choice to be made, he opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. Takes it all in.

Through clouded lenses he watches a shadow of a man stretch and reach in faux skin, pulling at dark seams like the fabric of a stiff suit. He bends and the world twists around him, he reaches towards the sky and the heavens come down to meet him. The man settles into a tree pose in his morning yoga routine and reality settles alongside him. The corners of the room peel up like old, yellowing wallpaper. It’s soothing to watch something as unfathomable as the whole world and reality itself stretching the kinks out of it’s back. It humbling in a way that few things dare to be; it makes him feel at peace.

The rich smell of coffee drifts through the room, not the instant grounds that poor college students like Ryan can afford, but the rich beans shipped across far seas that only come exorbitantly priced. A pair of silhouettes pace the kitchen floor, tracing circuits around each other like snarling dogs. They affably throw insults back and forth, all the while laughing, resounding. A forgotten breakfast is scattered half finished and overcooked, the burnt stench of failure smothered by the roast beans of costly coffee. It looks like what might once have been bacon and pancakes, but the mess lies forgotten in the midst of the friendly hostility taking place. Five mugs line the counter, beholding the battle in a worshipful congregation. Ryan finds the fifth is cup already in his hand. He takes a sip and it tastes like bliss.

Lying quietly under the sounds of cheers and jeers of war, he can hear muffled snoring from the living room. A shaded arm thrown over the back of the sofa, a face pressed into the down of a plush pillow to block out the light. Someone had draped a blanket over the sleeping figure, woven from murk and dark. A smile finds its way onto Ryan’s face and a small chuckle sneaks past his lips. The blacked out figure is passed out drunk, a bottle of ritzy whisky still clutched in hand and dripping incrementally to the floor.

From the left the echo of footsteps approaches, carrying with it the outline of a man giving off both heat and light. Ryan basks in it, the lulling warmth of this wonderful world around him. The silhouette stops by his side and reaches out with a single hand. An offering, a touch–

The voice that speaks quiet, it’s sound floats in all this weightlessness. “You’re going to be late to your class.”

Ryan shakes his head slightly, the smile falling from his lips. He doesn’t want to leave.

The sun rises above the horizon line, flooding the room light beams of light. It lies across the floorboards in thin, flaky layers. That private delusion brought to life in the near silent and half-dawn dissipates with the arrival of the inevitability that comes with each day. The kitchen is empty, the couch is vacant, and this world is filled with golden light. The shadows of dawn have vanished.

“You haven’t moved an inch since I got in the shower, James.” Micah says, quietly concerned under the beat of water drops from the ends of her hair, like whisky, falling to the floor.

He absently goes to take another sip, and he finds his cup is empty.

A mantra rings in his ears, and when he speaks his voice creaks and sighs.

“It’s time to face the real world.”

*

Dusty red sprawls out across the landscape before him. Squat trees dot the sand dunes that line the deep blue of the horizon. The sun beats down on them all, sweat beading on their skin under the unnatural yellow heat. The Purah stands beside him, a hand on his forehead shading his eyes as he looks out over the men turned soldiers that have gathered here. Ryan’s gaze follows his, sweeping out over the legions of men. He must lead these men into battle, lead them to their deaths. He sets his gaze and squares his shoulders, shifts his stance wider, crosses his arms over his chest; mimicking the young captain they believe him to be.

He’s done this before, he’s done this more times than he cares to count, but it never gets any easier. It’s different when everyone knows the risks and accepts the consequences; when they’re all players, in on the game. There is no personal connection to be found here. No mutual understanding between competitors through competition. Here death is not just another risk or prize, not something to be fought over. Instead death takes on a role all of it’s own, hanging over it all with a smirk and taking whatever it pleases. A dog off it’s chain, believing it is free for all it is masterless. Grinning and greedy and out of goddamn line.

“Thirty two thousand men have gathered to fight the Midianites,” says the Purah. The white robes of his status are slung about his waist to avoid overheating under the boiling sun. The young man hesitates a moment before asking, “do you think that will be enough?”

Ryan looks out over the legions of soldiers and twists his face into a pronouncedly worried expression. A storm looms on the horizon, black clouds rolling in the distance. The thunder clash of the coming battle ringing in his ears, and he is afraid. These thirty two thousand untrained men aren’t much, but it’s enough to win this battle. He knows it’s enough, more than enough. It will have to be.

“Gideon,” a voice speaks from over his shoulder, tone steely with authority. “You have too many men.”

The dread that swirls in his gut pierces a spike through his chest. In shock, Ryan turns and stares over his shoulder. The Purah takes no notice of his reaction, the young man cannot see the angelic figure floating just behind them. Surely it must be an angel, god’s divine power is written in the feats it has performed and impossible geometry of it’s face.

His eyes fall to rest on the hem of the creature’s gown; fluttering and swaying around it’s feet that dangle above the earth. Even in shock and outrage, he can’t bring himself to meet its eyes. Ryan doesn’t understand why the angel would ask him to do this, and he wants to search the angel’s faces for some answer, but the impossible structure of the angel’s faces make him tremble in fear.

He opens his mouth to argue, but then immediately snaps it shut. He is not so blind as to be ignorant of his own fears, and he is afraid. However much he fears the coming storm, he fears more the wrath of god. To disobey the angel, to ignore the grace of god, he would be asking for wrath and penalty. Ryan takes a moment to steady himself: straighten his face, shift his footing, raise his head. On cue, the masses raise their attentions to him, a sudden hush falling over the dunes of sand. They stand and sit in silence, waiting on the word of their young captain.

He takes a breath and smooths any tremor out of his voice as he speaks. “Men of Israel, if you are afraid, go back to your homes!”

The crowd shifts and roils, a clamor rising from the mass. Some turn to leave immediately, with the words from his mouth they are freed from whatever binds held them here. Others hesitate, but they leave eventually with shame and relief spreading across their faces in equal turns. They will return to their friends and families, tonight they will sleep safe in their homes.

He is afraid, but he cannot turn tail and run. If he does there will be no more home for any of them to return to. He knows what comes next, knows it with a personal intimacy that weighs on his shoulders. It terrifies him. He’s done it a hundred times before, and he will do it again, but still the thought terrifies him. It’s not his own death that makes his hands tremble, but the lives of all these men under his command. They are the sheep to the slaughter, and he is the one to lead them there. Again, and again.

The Purah combs his fingers back through his ruffled brown hair, an obvious nervous tic. Wit his eyes forced wide in a shocked and worried expression, he speaks. “Wow… Lots of people were afraid. Twenty two thousand men went back home, and now we only have ten thousand.”

He tells himself it’s fine. Repeating it over and over in his head. They can still do this, they can win. Certainly he’s faced down far greater challenges than this with far fewer men at his back. The sun is still beating down on him, but he feels so cold.

“Gideon,” the Angel speaks again, it’s voice booming in his ears and sending bugs crawling under his skin. “You have too many men!”

No. No, no, no. He did as the angel said, he’s sent twenty two thousand men back safe to their homes. He doesn’t understand, why is the angel making him do this? The odds are stacked against them, even with the angel on their side. If he loses much more of this already minimal army, then any glimmering change they have of victory will vanish. With too small an army they’ll surely be defeated, and then their enemies will kill all the undefended people he’d sent back to their homes. He can’t tell these men to go, but he can’t defy the angel. He damned if he does and he’s damned if he doesn’t.

The angel speaks and Ryan stands stock-still as a wave of numbness and chill runs over his skin. “Take them to get a drink of water. Take only those who get down in the water and drink like dogs, lapping the water with their tongues.”

The Purah snickers. It feels louder than it is because it’s so out of place. Everything goes still for a moment, as if time has frozen on this second. The shifting and mumbling chatter of the soldiers comes to a halt. Not a breeze stirs the red and gold stand. There is silence, complete and perfect. Then, all at once, everything shatters.

As reality comes flooding in, one of the soldiers gives an exasperated sigh. “Miles…”

“I’m sorry! It’s funny, okay?” The Purah, Miles, takes a breath and skillfully settles himself back into his role. He seamlessly resumes his part, only to break out into giggles a moment later. The sound reverberates inside their small, flat world.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough for today,” says the professor as she stands from her seat in the first row of an empty theatre. “Everyone, nice job with rehearsals. Let’s keep up the good work.”

Miles claps him on the shoulder as he walks backstage. “You were great, James,” he says with a grin. “Absolutely fucking amazing, Douglas Campbell is rolling in his grave!”

“You were pretty good yourself,” Ryan replies, but Miles is already off talking to one of the soldiers.

It’s a subtle relief, he’s never quite known what to do with his arms stuffed full of praise. Miles makes his rounds through actors and stagehands, filled with pent up energy in constant need of release. He’s all quick words and wild motions, spreading easy smiles before moving on to the next person who catches his attention.

Ryan follows Miles’ example and makes his way backstage with the other actors. Behind him, the set is swarmed by stagehands. They tear the scene is apart in a frenzy, cardboard trees are uprooted and the sun sputters out as the spotlight dies. The stage is flooded by the costume crew and lighting technicians and sound directors, and the actors try to find a way backstage to get out of the way. Among the chaos, the student playing the angel is stuck suspended in the air until a couple members of the stage crew unhook him from the harness and help the him down.

As soon as Ryan is backstage, he is met with a member of the costume crew. He carefully shrugs out of his robes so as not to rip the delicate stitching. He hands over the bundle of cloth and in return he gets his shirt back. The end of the year is approaching fast, and with it comes their final performance. For the last two months, each day has been more practice. Memorizing lines, preforming dress rehearsals, getting everything together before the big event.

The world of the play is limited, undeniably false in its very existence. In all this chaos, it’s his job to take the fabrications in cardboard sets and cheaply made costumes and he make them believable. He is the best there is at his job, though admittedly he’s had a lot of practice bringing fictitious worlds into reality.

His peers praise him for his acting ability, portraying every role from cold blooded killers to high kings in perfect character. His professor had once offered him a position as a TA, but he’d turned her down politely with a few humble words. He knows he wouldn’t be any good as a teacher, no matter how much they assure him that he would. He can’t teach someone else to act like he does, because all his acting comes from experience.

How do you teach someone the victory in blood running crimson down the rivets of a shining blade? Or the feeling of the stratosphere brushing against your fingertips, the clouds like velvet and the earth like felt? The experience of sitting upon a throne of gold; a burden of responsibility worn proud like a heavy crown, and made weightless by the sheer elation it brings.

He can’t teach that to someone else, he wouldn’t even know where to start.

*

Ryan gets back to the apartment around seven.

The room is perfectly still and silent. He can feel the chill of empty against his skin and breathes in the quiet air. Vacant motions made baseless in perfect solitude.

Virescent houseplants are dulled into the background by that greyness that washes over everything. Orange-gold light slides in at an angle, then is set in lines against the floor by closed blinds. A dichotomy in gold and grey.

Motes of dust hand gently in the air, drifting with the slightest movement; his shallow breath is enough to make them twirl and dance. There’s a faint noise from somewhere else, another world entirely. Filtered by thin walls, it too becomes part of the ambient greyness. Along his bones, a steady smoldering warmth steadily beats back the silent chill that permeates his skin.

He makes his way towards the bedroom and each step is heavier than the last. Vacant motions made baseless in perfect solitude, he feels the pull of fugue on his limbs. He feels inapposite for all that this world’s idiosyncrasies are antithetical with his own. This world is cold and empty, he tries not to think about it too much.

He kicks his shoes off as he walks, then pulls his shirt up over his head. He lets it hang from his fingers, dragging along the floor. In the bedroom closet he lazily rifles through his clothing until he finds something presentable to wear. He lightly touches the fabrics, they’re coarse against the phantom feeling of silk and satin, but it will do for tonight. It’s their anniversary, after all. He lays out a clean shirt on cotton sheets, it’s fresh white and hardly used.

The orange-gold light slipping in through the window fades to dusk. An inferno burns at the edges of his mind, flaring behind his eyes and rooted deep inside him. He has an hour before he has to meet Micah. Plenty enough time for a short nap. He collapses onto the bed, not bothering to move the shirt. It will be wrinkled beyond repair if he sleeps on it like this, but right now he can’t find it in himself to care.

He closes his eyes, settles his breathing, and sinks into the familiar embrace of sleep. Just for a little while.

*

This place is nothing like where he went to sleep, the time or the time before. The silk of another world and the cotton of yet another replaced by the wool which, even with his eyes closed, is certain is red, because it’s always red.

That night when he wakes, Ryan is surrounded on all sides by the soothing staccato of gentle breathing. Warm bodies are wrapped softly in red woolen sheets and lain to rest. He leaves his eyes closed, savoring the quiet moments of limbo before heaven or hell breaks with wild energy and the blooms of sweet chaos.

The smell of trees and grass and _green_ mixes with the gunpowder that sits heavy on his palate. Hanging over all of it is the rich, overpowering scent of too many things mixed together. All of them twining around each other and blending together until each individual smell is a single muddled, homely mess that surrounds him and fills him and holds him close.

His limbs are heavy and leaden with lethargy. He keeps his eyes closed and smooths his breathing. He inhales green and gunpowder and _everything_ , takes it all into himself, and exhales everything that would seek to replace it. Then again, and again. He relaxes into a state of meditation, only retaining what is essential.

He feels the change take root in himself; putting away the parts of himself that might have once been essential, and bringing forth all that this world might allow him to become. Rid of anything that would seek to replace him, here he is at his essence. Stripped bare and burnt away, leaving only what is necessary.

His mind drifts away from his body, and he breathes.

*

He returns to his body only to surface for breath, and the world streams into him each time breathes. Dimly, the stretch and pull of the world’s twisted seams. Distantly, memory gives an image to match the bending release of tension. He recalls and records in duplicate, Jack goes about his morning stretches, a familiar ritual he is wont to perform with a long day of work ahead. Out of his body, floating somewhere far away, he listens the quiet shifting of feet on the floor and measured breaths. Slowly, he drifts away.

*

A breath, after an immeasurable amount of time. The rustling of sheets and the dip of a bed, and a force of heat hugs him closer at the quiet disruption. Michael and Gavin laughing, hurling insults or blades as they pace the floor in circuits. Jack shushes them and the sound dims. Gavin softly coos and a hand brushes through his hair like electricity before being knocked away.

“You’ll wake him up, you idiot.”

“But look, they’re cuddling!”

“C’mon, let them sleep.”

One set of footsteps fade away, and a kiss is pressed gently to his forehead before the other follows.

Ryan falls back into the darkness.

*

He is gradually made aware of waves which ripple across the lulling sea he floats on. Dulcet snoring and a tattooed arm wrapped around his waist. The scent of whisky on breath intertwines with gunpowder and green. The arm curled around him clutches him, pulling him closer. He would do the same if he could move at all. He soaks in the warmth of the moment, and soon feels the lull and tug on his mind. He floats away with the absolute knowledge that when he wakes, he will be alone.

*

He takes a breath, and the air tastes placid and silent. He feels the gentle touch of moonlight resting on hollow skin. He is empty, the shells of his bones beneath delicate and lighter than light. He has exhausted himself, and now all that’s left to do it wait for something to fill him up again.

The warmth of the room has seeped away, save for the faint source of heat and light just beyond his reach. Soft footsteps fade in from left, then stop at the bedside. Ryan opens his eyes slowly and looks up at Ray standing above him. Ray waits with tranquil patience in his dark eyes, reaching out wordlessly with a single hand. What is he waiting for?

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t want to leave,” Ryan answers quietly, his words echoing in the silent room. _Stop too honest too vulnerable go back to sleep_ , a far off part of his warns, but in the limbo of half-sleep haze he finds that it doesn’t really matter. That voice is part of someone else’s fear-filled reality. It doesn’t matter here. It’s quiet enough to hear the truth anyway, even if he didn’t speak it. “I’m afraid.”

“You’ll have to leave eventually,” Ray responds, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “But you don’t have to be afraid.”

“But what if none of this is real?” Ryan asks, his voice steady and empty as his hollow, leaden limbs. Some part of him, far away, screams hysterics; one wrong word could turn on him and shatter the illusion. He breathes, and the thing that once might have been part of him is gone to rest.

“This is real.” Ray says it with more certainty than Ryan feels, however Ryan feels more inclined to trust Ray than trust himself. Ray’s certainty fills him, and becomes him.

“Says who,” Ryan asks, not challenging, not afraid, merely curious. That’s the most dangerous part of it all.

“Nobody,” Ray tells him with a half-shrug, and the smile that curls his lip is one of those that he saves for only the greatest challenge. “That’s why we’ve got to prove them all wrong.”

Ryan eyes Ray’s hand, an offering. Without another thought, he takes it.

It’s a different world here, out of bed and out the door. Green surrounds and overtakes; its color, its smell, it’s everywhere. With feet flat to the floor they walk the short distance over the miles and miles of TNT underfoot. The smell of gunpowder seeps up through wool and permeates the air, mingling with green and moonlight. The very ground they walk on is volatile, filled to the core with an ever present danger. Here one wrong move could destroy everything they’ve ever built, yet he’s never felt safer.

In the dark of night, filled by the light crackle of torches, the two of them walk side by side and hand in hand. Ray watches the patterns of the ground passing underfoot, and Ryan watches him from the corner of his eye. Ray wants to say something, but he’s hesitant and unsure of his words. Ryan stays silent and gives him his time, they’ve still got a long journey ahead of them. They reach the courtyard before Ray can speak his mind, but it’s okay, they have more time than they know what to do with.

Geoff lounges across the throne; his feet kicked up over one of the golden arms, and his fingers stretched out upwards to trace the stars in the sky. At the sight of it, Ryan desperately wants nothing more than to bring them to him. Ray brushes his hand comfortingly along Ryan’s arm before he leaves his side. Ray approaches the throne to do an ironic kowtow at the king’s feet. Michael cracks into laughter at the sight of it, and Ray flips him off as he gives Geoff a peck on the lips.

“Look who’s finally up,” Jack gives a small wave and a droll smile from where he sits atop of a Tower of Pimps. “Hey Ryan.”

“Hi Rye!” Gavin shouts, only half listening as he attempts to scramble up the side of the fifteen foot tall tower.

A razor sharp sword carved from diamond hangs hazardously from one of Gavin’s hands while the other grips at the side of Jack’s tower. Gavin is all long limbs and scattered movements. An unstoppable force and an immovable object bundled up into a body too small to contain it’s impossible energy. Jack steadfastly ignores him, only bothering to step on Gavin’s fingers whenever he gets a grip on the top.

Michael comes up to Ryan’s side and hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him close, swathing him in fire and cinnamon. He presses a quick kiss to Ryan’s lips in greeting, and the predatory grin never leaves his face.

He has plans. By the feral look in his eyes, they’re going to be catastrophic.

Michael leans in closer, his breath hot against Ryan’s neck. He feels as Michael opens his mouth to say something, and Ryan leans back just enough to give him a stern look. The look is undoubtedly ruined by his half formed grin to match Michael’s own, but the message seems to get across regardless.

_If you’re planning something, I’ll have to stop you. So don’t tell me, and that way we can both enjoy it._

Ryan doesn’t speak, but Michael nods anyways, and his smile splits impossibly wider. Ryan unravels himself from Michael’s hold, though he possessively keeps an arm wrapped around Michael’s waist.

“What are you guys smiling about?” Ray asked suspiciously from halfway across the courtyard. Half leaning against the golden throne, he stands at Geoff’s side in a mock parade rest. The torch placed just above Ray’s head flickers and sparks, shedding a halo of light about Geoff and himself.

Michael and Ryan beam back at him with teeth bared. Ray tilts his head in quiet amusement and smiles back fondly. 

“Should I be worried?” Jack asks, watching their exchange from high above with his feet dangling over the edge of the tower.

“None of your business,” Michael announces to the group at large.

Ray and Jack simultaneously turn to Ryan curiously. He holds up one hand in surrender, the other still firmly attached to Michael’s hip. “Look, I don’t know anything, alright?”

“Oh, so we should be very worried then,” Jack says sagely and aims a kick at Gavin’s face.

“If Ryan’s staying out of this one, then we’re all fucked,” Ray adds dryly.

“Alright Geoff, what are we doing tonight?” Jack asks, effectively ending the wild speculation before it can begin.

“We’re going hunting,” Geoff declares with a lazy flourish.

“Hunting for what?” Gavin asks, easily distracted from his task and now hanging off the precipice of the tower by one hand.

“I’m glad you asked, Gav.” Geoff pauses dramatically, as if he doesn’t already have every one of their attentions.

The torchlight shines bright, and silver moonlight glitters on gold, but Geoff’s savage grin flashes brighter. This man is his king, these people are his gods. In this moment Ryan feels that he would do anything they asked of him.

“Tonight we are going to hunt the most dangerous game.”

“Man?” Ryan asks, and he feels the tension begin to set in Michael’s muscles against his side.

All at once, time slows down. Ryan eyes the diamond sword in Gavin’s hand. He feels Michael shift his weight. They both know about it. The other diamond sword in the chest outside the monolith. It’s only a question of who can get there faster. However, he also knows Michael will go for the sword rather than the diamond armor in the kung-fu house. If Ryan lets Michael take the sword, he could get the armor for himself. But that would leave him without a weapon. The only other sword he knows of for sure is the iron sword in Ray’s chest. He could stay here and take out Ray first. That would give Michael a head start enough to reach the sword. Then he can take the armor and iron sword without problem. The only other person who knows about the armor would be– His eyes snap to Jack. The man stands upon the golden tower, his gaze unmoving from Geoff’s. Jack's hands by his sides curl and unfurl. Ever so slowly. He’ll have to avoid Gavin while fighting Ray and Jack. He can likely take out the two of them, but three on one they’ll overwhelm him. It’ll be tricky. Jack and Gavin are close together. If he can get Jack engaged with fighting Gavin, or even Ray, then he shouldn't have a problem. Ryan’s considering gaze trails down to Gavin, half hanging off the tower by the tips of his fingers. Gavin's eyes flit left and right, flickering until they snag on Ryan's gaze. From across the courtyard, a vicious, pretty little smile splits Gavin's lips. 

_Catch me if you can._

Geoff’s maniacal laughter rings out sharp and beatific, severing Ryan’s thought process. “No,” Gavin keeps his gaze locked in place as Geoff speaks. “It would be way too easy to kill you morons. I’m thinking something that might actually be a challenge.”

All at once, the hostility evaporates from the air around them. Gavin’s eyes meander over towards Geoff as the tension breaks. Ryan waits for the wild burst of adrenaline to clear his system and allows himself to relax. It’s like nothing happened, because nothing did.

“Then what the fuck are we hunting for?” Michael asks, the raging competitive spirit leaking from him as he settles back, melting into Ryan’s side once more.

“C’mon Geoff, tell us!” Gavin gripes, dropping from the topmost block of the tower and landing in a half-roll, half-heap on the ground below.

Michael snorts at Gavin’s graceful display of inelegance and the force of it rumbles against Ryan’s side. Jack shakes his head, and Gavin beams up at Jack, as if to say _aren’t you impressed?_

Geoff shoots a glare at Gavin, but the smile that curls his lips negates the effect. With a wave of his hand he gives up any overly dramatic pretenses and says, “we’re hunting the Ender dragon.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence throughout the courtyard.

Then Jack groans. “Seriously?! That’s so fucking tedious.”

“Why did we let you decide? I could come up with a million better things to do tonight,” Michael growls in agreement.

“Whoever lands the killing blow wins,” Geoff continues as though he hadn’t heard their complaints. “It’s Geoff Day, so we do whatever I want.”

“But Geoffrey!” Gavin says, dragging out his name.

“Gavin, shut the fuck up,” Geoff snaps.

“ _Geof_ freeey,” Jack choruses. “Geoffrey the skeleton.”

“Why are we fighting the dragon anyways?” Ryan throws into the chatter and chaos.

“ _Everyone_ shut the fuck up!” Geoff yells over them, ineffectively bringing a fist down on the arm of the golden throne. “We’re fighting the Ender dragon and it’s going to be fucking awesome.”

“I will turn this car around,” Jack mocks idly.

Ray hasn’t said anything so far, and when Michael looks to him for backup he just shrugs. “Alright, I'm down.”

“C’mon, Ray!” Michael bursts with a fury that only goes skin deep. “I know you don't actually want to go fight the stupid fucking dragon again.”

“Maybe I'm just doing it to piss you off,” Ray comments with a sly smile, teeth bared in a juxtaposition to his casual lean against the side of the throne.

“Whatever,” Michael huffs out below a grumble.

Michael turns on his heel, pulling Ryan along behind him. When he turns Ryan catches a glimpse of the deep scowl etched into his face and a bright-hot gleaming in his eyes. Ryan’s not quite sure where Michael thinks he’s dragging them off to, or even if Michael is aware that he’s still stuck to Ryan’s side, but he’s content to go along with it and let Michael have his fun.

“And wipe the fucking smile off your face!” Michael yells without turning back.

Ray says, “I'm only smiling because it'll make it easier to bite you later.”

Michael hits pause on his dramatic exit just long enough to turn back and throw a glance at Ray. “Is that a promise?” Michael asks, and there’s something considering in his still bright-hot eyes.

Jack and Gavin watch the two of them fight with amusement, their attentions following the conversation like a particularly interesting tennis match as volleys are hurled back and forth.

“Hey!” Geoff yells to get their attention, but not before Ray’s wink tells Michael all he needs to know, whatever that is. “Where are you assholes going?”

And suddenly Michael is reminded of his dramatic exit and returns to storming out of the courtyard. “To go get ready to fight your dumbass dragon, what do you think?!”

The last thing Ryan can make out before he's led away is Geoff addressing the others in the courtyard. “Well, those fuckers’ve got the right idea. You’ve got some time to ditch your gubbins, get armor on, collect weapons, food, and all that shit before we get to the End.”

Moonlight filters through the covering of leaves overhead, and when Ryan looks up he can see the dark sky between the gaps in twining branches. The further they get from the courtyard, the quieter their surroundings become. Soon the only noise around them is the heavy beat of footsteps and Michael’s soft breathing.

After they’ve made a bit of headway into the woods, Ryan speaks up. “...We're not going to get equipment.” It's not a question, and Michael doesn't treat it like one.

A small, mischievous smile spreads across Michael's face, and Ryan can't help but throw his head back with the force of the laugh that escapes him. It breaks the silence of the night, and a nearby sheep scampers away from the disturbance. Ryan takes a deep breath of the chill night air, and smiles as he lets it out. The breeze tastes like damp dirt and pine trees.

They both know this path well enough to navigate blind. He knows it with the ease that Michael ducks around branches without taking his eyes off Ryan. Michael’s face is unreadable, but Ryan knows him well enough for that to be a lie. Michael looks like he wants to stop, wants to sit down in the grass and just breathe, but he can’t do that. There’s something else, always something bigger and better that needs doing.

“You think too much,” Michael says, and his face is unreadable, but his voice is fond.

“Probably,” and Ryan can’t seem to stop smiling.

The sound of crunching grass and dirt breaks behind them before Ray emerges from the tree line. “Hey, wait up.”

“Hi Ray,” Ryan greets Ray with the same leisurely grin, and Michael just glares at him.

“Did you miss me?” Ray asks.

“With every bullet so far,” Michael growls, dutifully taking up his role as the punchline.

“Dude, fuck off,” Michael says with a voice like artillery grinding into place. He continues on their track towards the city with a glare in Ray’s direction.

“No way, man.” Ray protests and jogs to keep pace. “I want in.”

Michael spare a considering glance at Ray now. Something in Ray’s casually dead set expression must convince him, because Michael nods.

“Awesome,” Ray says, then after a moment he asks, “so what are we doing?”

“I would also like to know, actually,” Ryan throws in just as they set foot in Achievement City.

“It's supposed to be a surprise,” Michael puts up the target for them to knock down; arguing only for the sake of itself as he steers their three person procession towards his house.

“Surprises are lame,” Ray tells him with the utmost certainty, “so spill it already.”

Michael huffs, but folds without much prompting. “Well, it’s Geoff Day, so we have to do everything he says or else tomorrow is Geoff Day too. Right now he's dead set on slaying the fucking Ender dragon for the millionth goddamn time. So all we gotta do is distract him. You know, make him wanna do something else.”

“Alright, and how do you suggest we do that?” Ryan asks skeptically.

“Simple,” Michael says with a smirk as he pushes open the door for them to walk through. “Ray and I are going to fuck Ryan until he makes enough noise to draw everyone else's attention. Geoff'll get distracted and we won't have to go fight the stupid fucking dragon.”

Things sticks in place with a static shock, and all the breath kicks out of Ryan at once.

“Oh,” Ray says nonchalantly as he meanders into the house. “Cool.”

Ryan takes half a second to mentally reboot before interjecting. “Woah, wait, we're going to do what now?”

Michael actually stops now, freezing in his tracks as Ryan moves past him. He turns his full attention to Ryan. His gaze is carefully searching, like he hadn't actually expected Ryan to object and now doesn’t quite know how to react.

Ryan is quick to deliver assurances. “Hey, I'm not complaining, just didn't see that one coming.”

“Are you sure?” Michael asks, tone pitched low in his uncertainty.

Ryan reaches out and grabs Michael by the arm before he can go on. He traces a small circle into Michael's arm with his thumb just to feel him relax under the touch. “Of course I'm sure,” Ryan says with alacrity. “Now shut the fucking door.”

“Are you losers done yet?” Ray says from inside the house. “I've already got my dick out over here. Try to keep up.”

Ryan lets go of Michael's arm and follows the sound of Ray's voice further into the small house. He can feel the heat of Michael's eyes on him as he walks away.

“You liar, there's no way you got undressed in ten fucking seconds,” Michael calls out over the sound of the door slamming shut.

Ray’s halfway out of his shirt, and when he sees Ryan giving him a look he amends. “Metaphorically.”

“Don’t suppose this is the big suprize you had planned?” Ryan asks as Michael comes up behind him.

Michael presses himself up against Ryan's back before designing to answer. “Not even close,” and Ryan can feel the curl of Michael's grin against his neck.

“Shame,” Ryan says, keeping his voice carefully even. “I'd kind of hoped it would be.”

“You'll find out what I've really got planned tomorrow,” Michael says, and takes the opportunity to pull Ryan’s shirt up over his head.

“Is it more sex?” Ryan asks, doing his best to sound unimpressed as his own shirt gets caught in the crook of his arm.

Michael only sounds half indignant when he assures them, “it’s better than sex.” The other half is amusement as Ryan attempts and fails to work the button on his pants undone.

“Well that’s just a fucking lie,” Ray snorts.

“I don’t know, it’s going to have to be pretty impressive to top surprise sex,” Ryan says, giving up on his pants and instead turning his head to catch Michael’s lips in a kiss.

Michael nips at his lip briefly before he puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and pushes him down onto the bed with a huff. “Stay down or I’ll tie you down.”

“That’s Gavin’s thing, not mine.” Ryan comments with a small, amused smile, but he makes no effort to move from where he’s landed.

“Shut up, smartass.” Michael’s fond grin spreads to match Ryan’s own.

Even after all the years they’ve been together, their love still feels like the forbidden fruit plucked off a manchineel tree. A deadly tempting reward given by gods should he dare to take it. Michael grabs Ryan by the jaw, _in flagrante delicto_. Michael forces him to look up and meets his eyes, they’re gleaming, hungry. _Tanto lo rifamo_.

A coil of heat throbs low in Ryan’s belly as Michael runs his thumb along Ryan’s bottom lip. Without having to be asked, Ryan obediently parts his lips and Michael’s thumb pushes into his mouth with a violent sort of piety. It runs across his lower jaw and presses down on the soft flesh beneath his tongue. Ryan slides his tongue across Michael’s finger, sucking on it lightly.

“Fuck,” Ray says softly. Without moving his head, Ryan’s gaze trails over to where Ray stands at the edge of the bed. Ray’s stopped half way through stripping down just to enjoy the view. “You look so good Ryan.”

Michael gives a little hum of approval. “Bet he’d look even better sucking on my cock.”

“Only one way to find out,” Ray says, sounding more than a little distracted.

Scattered along Ray’s body, the pinks of scars from axes and swords stand out where, in another world, bullet wounds might be instead. Tenderly treated with vitamin E and tea-tree oil ointment, the marks boast that he has never not been loved. Ryan is stuck by the urge to kiss every last one of them. He wants to start from the marks on Ray’s neck and moving down to those on his legs, but he’s held in place by Michael’s hand on his jaw and thumb in this mouth.

“Fuck, you know what you look like?” Michael says, and Ryan’s gaze snaps back to him just in time to see Michael’s eyes raking over Ryan like he can’t get enough. Ryan watches Michael back, and his vision is filled with summer’s oleander blooms. Beautiful and dangerous in equal turns.

Ray takes the opportunity to pull Ryan’s pants down to his knees. Ryan’s half hard cock slips free from his underwear, and Ray palms it and presses a light kiss to the top of Ryan’s spine. Ryan moans lowly at Ray’s attentive ministrations.

“On your knees, already hard with just my fingers in your mouth. You look like a goddamn drooling slut. I bet you’d love to have my dick in your mouth. I bet you could take both me and Ray, fucking you out at the same time,” Michael goes on and pulls his thumb out of Ryan’s mouth with a wet pop.

“You’d take us, you’d be so good Ry,” Ray says, wiping a bead of precome from the head of Ryan’s cock and another moan slips from Ryan’s steadily reddening lips. “So good for us.”

“I know we could get you fucking begging for it. Push you to the edge, make you come for us. Shit, I bet we wouldn’t even need to touch you. You’re so fucking hungry for cock, you could absolutely come untouched, couldn't you.” Ray teases more feather light kisses along Ryan’s spine, and Michael hurriedly undoes his pants.

The intensity is near unbearable. They’ve set themselves up to be this and always this. Ray’s hand lets go of Ryan’s dick and he has to stifle a whine at the loss. It must show on his face because Michael smirks. For a moment Ryan thinks they’re really going to make him come untouched, but he’s not left for long. Ray uses his reclaimed hands to spread apart Ryan’s cheeks, and immediately his tongue is tracing Ryan’s hole. Ryan lets out a startled breath, and Ray licks a broad stripe across his entrance.

Ryan blinks twice in an attempt to restart his scrambled brain. It's all blinding and frantic, and he doesn't think he could go without it even if he'd like to. In a sloppy motion he reaches out with one uncoordinated hand, somehow managing to undo Michael’s pants.

Michael bats his hand away before he can get his hand around Michael’s dick. “Stop it, stupid. This is for you.”

“This _is_ for me.” Ryan fishes Michael’s dick out of his pants defiantly. “Wanna make you feel good.”

When he looks up he sees Michael watching him with dark eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust. Michael moves to press his dick up against Ryan’s lips, and Ryan kisses the head of it lightly. When Ray flicks his tongue against Ryan’s tight hole, it makes his jaw go slack and sparks run up his spine. The sparks ignite hot against the spots where Ryan can still feel Ray’s kisses lingering along his back. Michael takes the opportunity to press inside Ryan’s mouth with all the licentiousness expected of those in their close-knit group. The weight of it presses down on Ryan’s tongue with a heady taste.

“Fuck,” Michael breathes. His hands are gripping Ryan’s jaw so hard it stings. “Fuck, fuck, Ryan. You feel so good.”

Ryan carefully hollows out his cheeks and creates a vacuum around Michael’s dick. The hot, wet, tightness of Ryan’s mouth draws a moan out of Michael, and Ryan feels incredibly pleased at a primal level. The sound of it mellifluous like nothing else with Ray joining in to the fugue.

Ray’s tongue dips into Ryan’s hole, going from licking to penetrating in one swift motion. Ryan hums in pleasure around Michael’s dick causing Michael lets out a deep groan. Ray’s tongue twirls in a small circle before dipping back out again to lap at the rim.

Ryan can hear Michael’s breath quicken as he takes his dick deeper into his mouth. Ryan leans his weight on one hand, and brings the other up to work what he can’t fit into his mouth. Ryan takes Michael’s dick into his mouth smoothly until he can feel it hitting the back of his throat, pragmatically pumping his hand along the rest.

Ray lets out a quiet, “goddamn.” It takes Ryan a long moment to realise that he’s moved to get a better angle of him with Michael’s dick in his mouth, like a proper hedonist.

Ryan feels a hand thread through his hair a second later, and he’s not sure who’s it is, but the sound that follows is unmistakeable. Ryan hadn’t even realised he had closed his eyes, but he opens them enough to see Michael’s hand on his head and Ray. Ray, who is kneeling on the bed jerking himself off watching Ryan and Michael. Prayers given and granted through love; there is no other gods nor faith good enough for Ryan. Nothing as fulfilling or _filling_.

“I’m close,” Michael says, his voice tight and urgent.

Ray’s other hand returns to Ryan’s straining dick, and the suddenness of the unexpected added sensation causes his breathing to stutter.

“Do it,” Ray says with a husky tone to match his half-lidded eyes. “I wanna see you come down his throat.”

Michael lets out a cry of “ _Fuck!_ ” and comes inside Ryan’s mouth.

Ryan swallows Michael’s load as his dick starts to go soft in his mouth. Ray keeps up stroking both their dicks at the same speed. Ray’s motions get more jerky and stuttering the closer he gets to completion, and Ryan’s close too. All it takes is for Michael to lean closer and bite down on the side of Ryan’s neck. Ryan spills into Ray’s hand with a whine, and before he knows it Ray is coming too.

The spot where Michael bit low on his neck aches in the best way, and he already knows he’s going to have a mark there. He never wants it to fade.

“Fuck,” Ray breathes lightly.

“Yeah,” Michael says, sounding equally short of breath.

Ryan lets out a satisfied sigh and collapses back onto the bed. His own come is drying on his legs, and probably on Ray’s hand too, but after a short moment Ray throws himself down on the bed next to Ryan. Michael joins them on Ryan’s other side, and before he knows it Ryan is surrounded on both sides by heat and warmth. The three of them lie now in the house that they have built themselves. Together, bathed in come, sweat, and fire.

Everything is right in the world, and Ryan can’t help but feel that Murphy’s Law has failed them. He isn’t sure what he expected to happen, in the fluidic realm that something might. He lets a lazy chuckle escape him, and Michael turns to look at him curiously.

“This was the worst fucking plan,” Ryan says, and the moment it’s out of his mouth it has him laughing twice as hard. “How are the others supposed to hear me if I’ve got your dick down my throat?”

“I’m pretty sure Michael was louder than either of us,” Ray quips without moving a muscle.

“Well I was actually planning on leaving the door open, so if you hadn’t told me to close it the plan would have worked just fine,” Michael grumbles with a small smile on his lips.

“We should probably get ready to fight the stupid dragon since Michael’s plan to get out of it failed so spectacularly,” Ray comments without making any effort to get up.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan raises one hand to wave him off before letting it flop back onto the bed.

Not a soul stirs in the world around them. The breeze that floats in through the window is warm like summer and crisp like fall. The night is still young, and they’ve got all the time in the world. For now, Ryan is determined to enjoy the moment.

“The End can wait.”

*

"There’s the thing I shouldn’t do  
and yet, and now I have  
the rest of the day to  
make up for, not  
undo, that can’t be done  
but next time,  
think more calmly,  
breathe, say here’s a new  
morning, morning,  
morning"

\-- [Resolution by Lia Purpura](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/resolution)

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I actually went to the grocery store and sniffed each individual brand of tea to find the one that smelled the best to match[black tea and orange rind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2496914). I looked like a madman with a cart full of tea boxes. People gave me weird looks. Be grateful you punks.~~
> 
> For anyone who enjoys reading too much into things like I do, the meaning of the name Ryan is [little king](http://www.sheknows.com/baby-names/name/ryan), the meaning of the name James is [one who supplants, replaces, or undermines](http://www.sheknows.com/baby-names/name/james), and the name Micah means [who is like God?](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Micah) Make of that what you will.
> 
> The stageplay Ryan preforms is [Gideon by Paddy Chayefsky](http://www.scriptsforschools.com/uploads/content/B-08_GIDEON.sample-pages.pdf). Also, [fun fact](https://www.ibdb.com/broadway-production/gideon-2898): Douglas Campbell portrayed Gideon on Broadway in 1961. Ryan also references [ Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 1) by Shakesphere](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/macbeth/macbeth.5.1.html), because he is absolutley a theatre geek. (If there’s one thing school taught me, it’s to always cite your sources. I will break out the MLA citation. I swear to god. Don’t test me.)
> 
> I am an author, a mythical being who feeds off of comments. Feed me. But seriously, comments are absolutely my favorite thing in the world. All feedback is good feedback! Let me know if you are enjoying the story, if you have a critique or a writing prompt, or if you just want to say hi!


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